


When Dean Met Buffy (or: the accidental late-night support group for emotionally constipated hunters/slayers)

by anAwfulLotofRunning



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Late night talks, and maybe only grudgingly get along, bad life choices, buffy and dean are kind of the same person, crossover fic, flashbacks to hell, heart to heart, meddlesome sam, possibly au but fits within the timeline, so it makes sense they would hate each other, triggers for violence? maybe?, unhelpful cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anAwfulLotofRunning/pseuds/anAwfulLotofRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is back from hell, and is coping with flashbacks via Jack Daniels. Cas and Sam decide to send a certain blonde firecracker to knock some sense into the resurrected Dean. </p><p>(Or, the one where Dean is drinking, Sam is concerned, and Buffy is just along for the ride.)</p><p>One-shot. Brief mentions of torture/hell. Not slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Dean Met Buffy (or: the accidental late-night support group for emotionally constipated hunters/slayers)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Season 6 of Buffy (post "Gift") and Season 4 of Supernatural (post hell.) 
> 
> If Dean and Buffy met during that time I always imagine it would go one of two ways:  
> a) Hate sex, because they're basically the same person, and they both thrive on self-hate, or:  
> b) This.

Dean Winchester is tired, and possibly drunk. 

And currently having problems with the motel stairs.

He falls down twice before he reaches the top, bruising a knee and scraping his palms on the cold concrete.

Sam isn't in their room, and Dean doesn't remember why. He also doesn't remember when he stopped being able to hold his liquor.

He stumbles to the bathroom, through the cool dark of the room, shedding his jacket and shoes as he goes. All he wants is a shower, and bed. 

All he wants is to forget.

He dips his face to the sink, and clears his head with cold water.

He knows he has five minutes, maybe, before he sobers up and starts to remember. He glances toward the bed--only ten feet away. Surely he can collapse into it and find sleep before then? 

He’s boxer-clad, ambling to the bed, thinking only of sleep...when a small army ambushes him from behind.

It feels like three attackers at least--hands flying everywhere, binding his wrists tightly behind his back, forcing him into a chair he hadn't even seen before. Then his feet are tied as well, and he is left with no circulation, no way to move.

Nothing sobers you up like being attacked from behind in a dark hotel room.

"SAM!" he yells. "SAMMY!"

"Didn't you kick him out?" says an unfamiliar female voice. "Didn't you tell him that you were sick of his snoring?"

"Sam doesn't snore."

"I know." The stranger sounds sounds amused. 

"You….wait. What?"

There is a laugh, high and bright. 

Then a lamp comes on.

In front of Dean stands a single girl, blonde, five feet tall.

He scans the room, confused. "Where did the others go?"

"Others?" she asks. She looks amused.

"The army that helped you tie me up," he retorts. "I know I'm drunk, but not drunk enough to get taken by a paper doll like you."

She crosses her arms and steps back to smirk. "Apparently, you are. Don't feel too bad though, you're not the first."

"And you're not the first blonde to tie me up at night. What's your game, Sweetheart? Role play? BDSM?" 

"Nah," she says. "I just like to make an entrance."

Dean’s weaponless, phoneless, and he’s starting to itch where he’s touching the chair. He’s also far, far too tired for this. 

He scans the room, and, like a reflex, prays to Cas.

Castiel appears immediately and takes in the scene, face stoic as usual. He gives a little, exasperated sigh and asks, “Why have you summoned me this time, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes go wide in disbelief. “Cas!” he protests, and his voice comes out higher than he would have liked. “Look around! I’ve got a bit of a situation here!”

Cas looks unimpressed. “This isn’t a situation,” he says, monotone and bored. “This is Buffy. You’ll be fine.” 

And with that, he disappears.

It takes Dean a minute to realize that “Buffy” didn’t even flinch at the angel’s appearance. She should have cried out, attacked him, something...

“What the--” Dean asks, unsure how to even finish the sentence.

“That’s Castiel.” she says cheerily. “He’s an angel. Who apparently likes you. Although he has a funny way of showing it...” 

Dean glares and twists his arms against his restraints. The rope won’t budge, and as it cuts into his skin he remembers, all at once, racks, and screams, and the horrible knowledge of Alistair’s glee. He needs to get out, and he needs to get out now. 

“Who are you?” he demands, blood beginning to pound in his brain. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“To talk,” she says simply. “I came here to help.”

“Like hell you did.”

“Here.” She is suddenly beside him, and metal glints as she slices the ropes cleanly off. "Happy now?"

He rushes her, limbs still numb and flailing wildly. She catches his arm, twists his shoulder, and face-plants him into the floor.

"Do we really have to do this?" she asks, sounding exasperated. "Those vamps out front really wasted my patience.”

She steps back, calmly, to let him go, and he rushes her again, this time landing two hard blows to her jaw. She returns them in kind, and they circle each other in the small space of the room.

"Who are you?" he demands. "Tell me now, or I swear I will shoot you." 

Dean ducks a wide punch, and blocks a high kick. 

“Buffy,” she says, “Old friend of Sam’s. And no, you won’t. Your gun is in the pants you’re not currently wearing, and it seems to be missing a clip.”

She smiles sweetly and holds up said clip.

Shit. 

“Whatever, blondie. Why are you here?” 

“Sam. sent. me. to. help,” she says, enunciating each word like she’s speaking to a child. “Cas. gave. me. a. lift. God Dean, try to keep up.” 

He’s panting hard now, still confused. “Why the everliving fuck would Sam send me a homicidal cheerleader? I have better things to do than you tonight.”

Dean gets in two good blows to her ribs and is going for a third when--

"Because three months ago, you crawled out of your grave."

He stops, straightens, and doesn't even block the next punch that comes sailing, straight at his face.

~

He wakes on the bed, propped up, still mostly naked. Buffy’s beside him, towel in hand, sponging away warm blood from his face. 

"God, you bruise easily," she says. "Sorry. I didn't mean to mess up your face. You just pissed me off."

He sits up, and she hands him a glass of water. "You ready to talk now, Champ?"

"Are you going to hit me again if I say no?"

"Yes."

He slides to the other side of the bed, eyeing her warily. “Who are you again?”

“Buffy Summers,” she shrugs. “Slayer, comma, The.”

The Slayer? Interesting. 

“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he tries--and fails--for casual bravado. He’s just too tired to flirt right now.

“Talking to an asshole, apparently.”

“Wait…” He starts to remember something from earlier. “How do you know that my brother doesn’t snore?” 

“Because I’m stalking him,” she deadpans. “Or because he stayed over once, when your dad left him in Cali because he forgot he had a kid.” 

That’s dad for you, Dean thinks. 

“Fine,” Dean sighs, “What makes you think that you can help me?” 

"Because I crawled out of my grave too."

Dean is suddenly glad that the light is dim and she can’t see his face. He has never considered that he isn’t the only one. That there might be someone else who has been to hell and is still standing. He stands up quickly and starts to pace the room, rubbing shaky hands through his hair.

"But, that's…how did you…." there are too many questions, all at once. When and how and why and who? How did she die? Why is she alive? Can she sleep when she’s sober? 

He settles on the easiest question: "Who brought you back?"

"My friends," she says, simply.

"The fuck kind of friends do you have? It’s not possible to raise the dead."

"Well, you're here."

"Touche."

He feels the room spin and sits back down, far away from her on the edge of the bed.

"I was brought back by witchcraft," she explains. "They summoned Osiris to bring me back. Apparently if you die of mystical causes, you can also be brought back by them."

"So…you were brought back by a demon? Does that make you one now?"

Buffy laughs, throwing her head back with a snort. "I heard that you were brought back by an angel. Does that make you one now?"

Damn, she’s good.

Dean sits, gathering his thoughts. "How long have you been back?" he finally asks.

“A few months longer than you have.”

"How do you cope?"

She laughs, and the jaded sound rings through him. The harsh exhaustion is so familiar.

"Not well," she admits. "In ways that you only tell a stranger about in the dark. You?"

“Whiskey.”

“Ah.”

They sit for a minute, quiet.

“Why did you do it?” he finally asks.

“What, die?” She sounds puzzled.

He nods.

“I did it for my little sister, Dawn. It was her or me. So I made a choice."

"Yeah," he says. "Me too. For my baby brother, I mean."

He reaches for the bottle beside his bed. Offers it to her first, and then takes a swig. 

She joins him on the edge of the bed, a foot of space between them, facing out into the dark room.

"Do you regret dying?" she asks him, softly now.

"Not for a second, Doll." He feels a bit of his usual bravado returning.

She nods in agreement. "Dying felt so clear, so right. Everything made sense in that moment."

Did it? Dean thinks. Had he ever experienced clarity like that? A purpose in his life apart from the hunt?

“Do you regret coming back?” She’s asking the question away from him, into the dark.

He laughs, loudly now. A laugh with real humor. "Are you kidding? Of course not. Here, at least, I can find peace and quiet every now and then."

"Do you remember it?" she asks. “What it was like when you were there?” 

"No," he denies, quickly. He hopes that she didn't hear the lie in his words, that she won't make him _talk_ about it for chuck’s sake.

"Look, Buff," he says, trying to sound businesslike. "Is it okay if I call you Buff? Let’s call it a night. I'm tired, you know and I’m--" 

“Not the touchy-feely type?” she says. “Don’t worry, me neither.”

She stands up and throws the wet towel back at him. She looks a little awkward for a moment, rubbing her hands together even though the room is warm.

“So...” she says. “Truce?”

“Sure.”

“Sorry for the ambush.”

“Naw,” he says, trying to smirk, “I was going easy on you. In a fair fight, you’d have nothing on me.”

“Care to test that theory sometime?”

“Sure thing, Sweetheart. Call me.”

“I will break your face if you ever call me sweetheart again,” she says with a cheerfulness that sounds badly forced. 

“Sure thing boss,” he holds out hands in mock surrender. “Night, Buff.” 

“Bye, Dean.”

She turns toward the door, shoulders squared, and then pauses, indecisive. 

“I do, you know.”

He is caught off guard, confused. "You do…what?"

"I remember," she says, softly but firmly, still facing away. "I think that’s what I came here to say. I remember, I regret. All of it."

"You regret dying?" he asks. As long as they stay away from the topic of his memories, as long as they only talk about her, he can relax.

"Not dying. Of course not. Dying saved Dawn. But I remember what came after. Where I was, how safe I felt…and I know it’s a horrible thing to say. Horrible enough that I hunted down a sloppy drunk stranger in the middle of the night, just to be able to say it out loud." She takes a breath, turns to look him in the eyes. "Dean, I regret coming back."

"You felt…safe there? Should I be reaching for the holy water? I mean, not even demons feel safe in hell."

It dawns on him where she had been.

It dawns on her where he had been.

And there is nothing left to say.

~


End file.
